The Brown Canvas
by 5Daimyo
Summary: ...Four men, one bunker, one... everything. Rated 'T' for Language


He awoke in a hot a sweat. His eyes disappeared in a sheet of flesh before coming out again, refocusing to a dark surrounding. A pair of feet took a wide swing, wheeling off a scratchy-bunk. His hands darted out into the dark, feeling about the bunker. The top of a boot, smooth and polished. The chrome of a bunk-railing, lukewarm in temperature. A door.

The latch slowly rised up, clicking into an unlocked-state. The man bit his lip as his arms slowly cracked the door open. Nobody heard. A hand slowly went down to his pants. Somebody stirred in their sleep, he paused. A few minutes later and he continued. The zipper slowly, slowly began to seperate, splitting a metal seam. The man dug into his drawers and took out his member, looked around again, then began to piss into the night-air, jettisoning his urine through a delicately-opened crack in the door.

"Anson!"

The man jumped, smacking his head on a corner of the door. Piss went about in various directions, picking a poor and unsuspecting sleeper: "Ah... erhm..." a man grimaced in sleep, face awash in yellow. "Wha... wha-ech! What the hell? What the..._ fuck._ WHAT THE FUCK?"

If the f-bomb was an incidenary, the bunker would be a smoking and unidentifiable pile of ash by now; it was being dropped in heavy doses. "YOU FUCKER! You fucking pissed on me!" The one who had caused Anson to jump was crackling with laughter, somewhere off in the dark of the bunker. Another soldier awoke, asking unanswered questions admist the chaos. Anson cried out as the unlucky 'receiver' began bruising the shit out of his legs with a boot. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Anson pleaded, the army-issued laces whipping his ankles and the boot-leather thumping his knees. A light clicked on, commander Hawking standing at the switch. A grin exploded onto his face, quickly followed by a back-draft of laughter.

Anson was now facing back out the door again, the room quieting so only the final 'pattering' was heard. Anson's head was down, Desslock throwing the boot at him in momentary-hate. "Jesus, I cannot be_lieve_ you, Anson!" The man turned his head to Desslock, "I'm sorry, Jickam made me jump," Anson paused, looking at Jickam's face, a face of preplanned pranking, a face of devilish-hysterics. Anson's expressions disintigrated, molding into disfigured angles and stretches, "Jickam you fucker!" He zipped up his pants in haste, turned about, and sailed across the room landing atop Jickam who could not withold his childish screaming even when receiving urelenting salvos of thrown-knuckles and driven-elbows.

"Okay okay, Anson, that's enough." Hawking spoke, trying to suppress his own grinning. Things settled down (of course, not until Anson got one final throw in). Desslock was out of the bunker, washing his face with the outer-hydro system. People fell into their bunks, Anson lying down, a deadly-stare fixed on Jickam. Jickam caught his glance and smiled. Anson turned over, muttering profanities.

Jickam, grinning, turned to Hawking. His smile faded: Hawking's steely-gaze was a little more unraveling than Anson's. "Nice stripes, sargeant," Jickam quipped before flipping over in his bunk. Desslock returned to the room, flipping the bird to Anson's back before turning to Hawking who was ready to kill the lights, "Hey, do we have any towels?" Hawking's hand slid from the switch and checked a nearby locker-chest. Half his body disappeared into the thing before he pulled himself out with a shaking 'no'. "Damn't, thanks a lot, Anson. Aight, well, I'm gonna ask around the other bunkers." Hawking nodded, "Alright, but don't be too damn long, it's just for some towels, remember?" "Yeah-yeah, I wont." Desslock ducked out of the bunker, escaping into the night with the pitter-patter of his socks on sand and the popping of bony-knees.

"Kill the lights, will ya?" Jickam was pinching his eyes. Hawking slammed the chest down to no effect, the only response a brief-snore from Anson and a ringing in his own ear. A mumble escaped his mouth and the bunker went dark.

-

There was an abrubt pounding on the exterior of the bunker. At first Jickam mistakened it for a Zerg attack, or worse yet, the monstrous wild-mongrels that scour the desert during the night (rumors, theories, Jickam was gullible, and this was often taken advantage of). So, as any startled man would do with a nearby piece, he grabbed his sidearm, aiming it out one of the fire-holes, a keen eye on the illusionist-expert conceived of sand, also known as the desert. "I think it's just Desslock, calm down." Anson threw his covers off and stood up, Hawkings nabbed the lights once more. "Damn Desslock, you were gone enough," as Anson approached the door it burst open, Desslock appearing like some otherworldly-diety at the step, "They're gone! All the bunkers are gone!"

Anson blinked a few times, sighing, "Damn't, Desslock, get the fuck in bed; I know, I pissed on your face, it was an accident," "I'm not trying to pull your leg, Anson! Hawking," he turned to the seargant, "_There are no bunkers outside._" Hawking, droops slipping away from beneath his eyes, slumbered to the door and leaned in to Desslock's ear, "If you're joking, I'll have your head." Desslock didn't respond, Hawking lingering about him a moment, then escaped into the night, his white military-stripes flickering from the light flooding out the door.

Minutes passed, Desslock remained quiet, sitting on the chest Hawking had slammed.

The man returned, sweat at the forehead, cheeks flush of colors. "I... I didn't see any bunkers," he breathed, turning to Desslock, "I didn't see any bunkers at all." Desslock nodded, then, the both of them, turned to Anson and Jickam. Jickam shrugged, his legs crossed and a pistol in hand, "They wouldn't leave us..." the gun turned in his palm, an act played out by nervous fingers. Jickam's head turned towards Hawking, "...Would they?"

The seargant shrugged, "No, they wouldn't." Anson spoke in-turn, now, pulling his face away from a fire-hole, "I didn't hear about any move-outs." Hawking shook his head, "Neither did I." Jickam and Desslock shook in unison too, "Me neither." - their voices bounced into one another, symmetrical sound-waves that silenced the room. Everyone looked about, only a few seconds had passed, but it punched them in the jaw, it broke their fingers; it felt like hours, hours of pain, before Hawking broke the cringing, undescribable, unwanted, tranquility, "Okay. So, okay... let me think..." He breathed in and out, heavy clumps of air exchanging elements. A tongue strolled his fine teeth, clung to his molars briefly, then rolled and jumped in production, "We... will... wait till morning. Till morning, that is what we'll do; come morning I'm sure the bunkers will be there," Hawking paused. Desslock was shaking his head, "You saw, Hawking."

"I saw nothing."

"Exactly. You saw noth-"

"It could just be the dark; I can't see shit out there anyways."

Anson broke in, standing up, "Let me see for myself."

Hawking stopped him with a thrusted palm, "Just wait a second."

Anson's face broke in anger, "What's the deal, Hawking?"

"Just wait a second, alright? The bunkers are gone," he nodded, a movement subconciously gestured to Desslock, "They're gone," Hawking continued, "We've been left behind, or, something." "Do you think we got attacked? I mean..." Jickam didn't know what to say, and his intruding comment was found ridiculous by all; Anson most especially, "That's retarded, Jickam, you know that as well as I do; if we got attacked by the Zerg, we would've known it; and if we didn't know it, we'd be dead by now." Jickam crouched away, planting the gun at the feet of his bed and covering himself with a green-blanket.

"Right," Hawking said, "So, we wait. Till morning."

Desslock, "Till morning." He turned to Anson, who nodded, "Morning." Jickam received the stare of all. His blanket lowered to his feet, his eyes bore down on the pistol. "Okay," a hand thumbed out beneath the covers and snagged the pistol; it disappeared in a mess of cotton-green, Jickam sliding into his belt, "We'll wait till day-break." The jitter-bug let loose his bite of Jickam; the man had recovered his emotions. "Morning!" He clapped, throwing his body into the air and throwing the covers over himself. "I'm gonna sleep this shit off, fellas; night!" Jickam said no more for the occasion.

Desslock, Anson, and Hawking nodded; "Alright."

Everyone got back into bed, Hawking killing the lights.

For all, sleep was a dream in itself.

-

After a few hours of lying in bed, Hawking was the first to rise. He scooted some knee-and-thigh plating on as if he was going off to battle. Then a flak-jacket clambered over his head and enveloped his chest in plastics and metalloids.

Anson rose second, "Going somewhere?" "Damn right I am," Hawking responded, shifting the plating.

Jickam slapped his arm against the wall, moaning, "Where you going, Hawkin'?"

"Hawking or seargant, private-Jickam." "Sorry, sir." Hawking threw his hand over his lap and picked up a pair of combat boots strung together by their laces, "I'm going back to the rear-lines." "We don't have a radio though, so how will we keep contact?" Anson said, watching Hawking gear-up. "We'll use our com-units." Anson shook his head to the answer, "Sorry to tread on your adventure, sir, but com-units don't have the reach for where you're going." Jickam had risen now, blinking wildly as his eyes store their gazes on a flat wasteland where no other bunkers lay. "I know that," Hawking said, slipping a knife into his boot. "I know that," he repeated, standing up, "But somebody has to report this." Anson stood up, now, "Why don't I go, sir?" He suggested. "I know the grids better than the three of you put together. Plus, Anson, it's fairly easy to get lost out there. And when you get lost out there, you get i lost /i ."

Lost, Desslock repeated under his breath. He sat up, no longer a fly on the wall to the bunker's morning-activities.

"Mornin', sunshine." Anson rattled the words off as if he was an old-woman working words on brittle bones and off a crusted tongue. "I..." Desslock sniffed around himself, "I still smell like piss, Anson." Anson rolled his eyes and strolled out of the bunker and into the fresh air. Hawking swung his arm out, snatching a rifle leaning up against a bunker-wall following Anson out. Jickam soon made-out too, slipping on a pair of wrinkled jeans.

"Hey..." Anson spoke out to no one in particular. Hawking was closest, though, so his reponse came first, and most questioning in tone, "Yeah?" "The air conditioner is busted." "It wasn't last night, we would've drowned in our sweat if it had," "Yeah I know," Anson continued, interrupting a disgruntled Hawking, "It just broke, I mean, right now." "Just now?" Anson nodded, "Just now, right as I walked past it - boom, dead." "Fuck," Jickam spoke from behind, "The AC's busted!" Hawking and Anson gave him a doubly-annoyed stare. Jickam sniffed and rubbed his nose, "Yeah? What's your problem compadres, wanna go? Huh? Wanna go?" He put his fists up. "Shut up, Jickam," Hawking ordered, looking back at the air-conditioner. Jickam lowered his dukes (aptly named Barker and Rose; Anson always quipped them as being biscuit and roll; Jickam hated that, so, just out of spite, Anson called them that whenever given the situation, except now).

"Well, I don't think we can stay out here long without some cool-air, sarge," Anson spoke, tapping a dead-meter. "Nope. Especially, Jickam," now it was Desslock's turn to interrupt. "Fuck you, Dess'." Desslock nodded to Jickam, smiling, then turned to Hawking who's hand was rubbing the silent machine, "Get back quick, sarge, alright? If there's one thing I hate more than Jickam here, it's this fucking weather." "And if there's one thing I hate more than this weather, it's fucking Desslock," Jickam rised to the occasion, but his response was a lame duck. Silence followed, then Jickam lowered his head in shame, "I know... I know..." Anson jabbed him in the side, "It happens to the best of us." Jickam had failed, a first in some time, to make someone eat their own words.

"Aight; Anson, you're in charge. Time for me to head out." Hawking turned, lifting his rifle up and carrying it limply. "Later, sarge," Jickam said, sitting on the AC. His body lifted quickly: the metal was brimming with heat, "Fuck Almighty!" Jickam didn't just jump up, he sprang like a wild-animal flying past Anson and Desslock as if in hunt of a shrinking Hawking. The sarge turned back, assessed the situation as Jickam's hysterics, tipped his hand as if he was wearing an adventurous-fedora, then turned away to never look back. Anson watched him go, muting out Jickam's yelps and bitching for about a minute before snapping, " i Okay /i Jickam! What happened..." Anson's eyes rolled, an unemotional and unnoticed tear bubbling out in the process and spattering his boot.

Jickam was waving his hands about wildly, "I burnt 'em, I burnt 'em! Jesus-fucking-Christ! Jchaaaa..." He sissed' like a snake, blowing on hands that really i were /i burnt. Not just burnt, but scalded. "Damn, Jickam, what the fuck'd you do?" Desslock said, taking a hold of the man's wrist and getting a closer look. "I just put them on the AC, that's alllll-aghh... they burn, they burrrnnn..." He started to wail like an overdramatic child, but Anson figured he had reason to; his hands looked i bad /i . Skin was curdling at the breasts of his palm, and in the cup of it the tissue licked about with fiery gruesomeness and stuck out an ugly tongue of muscle. The ugliness receeded the farther up the fingers and stopped entirely at the wrists.

They began to move Jickam back into the bunker, Desslock quipping along the way, "Wow, Jickam, there goes your hobby." Desslock comically started jerking his hand up and down. "I'll kill you," he responded, bumping the door open with his butt. Anson situated the wounded' onto his bed, telling him to stop screaming like a two-dollar whore. "Desslock, get the med-kit." Desslock nodded and wheeled around, moving with enough speed to appear to be levitating. A tall cabinet was jerked open and out came the med-kit, a small box full of bandages, morphine, the whole-lot. Desslock returned, med-kit in hand, just as fast as he had left. Even though the ground covered added up to only a handful of feet, Anson noted, he spaced-it i fast /i .

"Here, here," Anson said as if he were Jickam's mother. The bandages wound their way around his hands, slow at first (and painful), than faster, and less teeth-grittingly. Jickam calmed down, sitting on his bunk as Desslock went into a corner and withdrew a carton of cigarettes and Anson replaced an empty cabinet space with the med-kit. As Anson turned Desslock tilt his head back and fogged the bunker's ceiling. The smoke was despicable in such close-quarters; Anson stepped outside. Jickam didn't mind: "Hey, Dess', give me a smoke, will ya? It's damn hot in here."

-

Eventually Anson joined in. The smoking, that is. They depleted the entire carton and desposed of it via fire-hole. Where it rolled to no one knows: only its pit-pattering sounds could be heard as it tumbled across the desert. It was so quiet, so calm.

Desslock's eye twitched. Anson caught it, the movement punting him out of a day-dream, "You alright?" Desslock was on the ground, one leg up and an arm strung over it; he looked like he needed another smoke, the four he had just wasn't enough it seemed, "Uh-yuh... yeah. I'm fine." Jickam was lying on a bed, his body laid out with his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. "You know, " Jickam started, "We should try Hawking, see what he's up to." Anson nodded, "Good idea. I don't think I can stand this boredom much longer." All three collected to a part of the bunker, hovering around the squad's com-unit. Anson dialed in.

"Sarge? Hawking?" There was a beep-boop, then static. The white noise continued on for an unsettling amount of time before: "Here."

Signs of relief spread amongst the trios faces as if they were fans in a stadium doing the 'wave'. Anson, smiled, grinned even wider, then brought the speaker close to his mouth, almost touching it: "How goes it, Hawking." A drop of sweat had bombed the mic mid-sentence, apparently it affected the transmition: "Say again? Something butted in." Anson held the mic away from him, breathed heavily, palmed his forehead and brow, then spoke again, the mic closer than ever, "We're dying out here, Hawking." "Yeah, it's hot as fuck, Hawking." The sargeant hadn't heard Jickam's comment: Anson had let the static take hold beforehand. Hawking broke the crackling-grasp with consolidation of a bitter, distant, tone, "I know, guys, I know." "Jeez, Anson, he sounds like he's on another planet," Jickam spoke; he wobbled on his feet. Desslock was staring blankly at the com-mic's cord. Anson, shut his eyes, then opened, "I'm not just saying that, Hawking; we're really drying up out here." Again, the air was raped with a bickering, crackling-electronic crying. Hawking swiped it away, a monotonous voice arriving as if it were riding a stead made of communication waves and trans-bits, "Stay hydrated, men." A pause. "The water's still running, right?" Anson hadn't realized it, but his hand had dropped to a-side, mic in hand. His eyes flicked towards it, staring out their respective corners. As if his vision could control his movements, the arm came up whilst being tracked by animalistic-whites. The mic fell onto his mouth, practically in it. His tongue lashed about trying to pronounce words. It couldn't. Anson withdrew the mic a bit, giving his mouth some space, "Yeah, Hawking, it's working. Working. It's just so fudging hot, Hawking." Anson's eyes darted to their edges. Desslock was leaning up against the wall, asleep; or dead. Anson turned back to the mic, uncaring, "I'm gonna go get some of that water, Hawking. Desslock and Jickam too. And Anson. We're all going to get something to drink."

The bickering white-noise came again. Anson nearly fainted, but Hawking's voice, tuned-robotically by the hands of communication sound-waves, saved the day again, "You do that private, and do it now. You guys don't sound swell, don't sound it at all."

"We'll be fine, Hawking."

The com-unit was shut off before Hawking could respond another time.

The three, wilting into pre-cremated zombies, slumbered out of the bunker and to the water pump. Anson got his drink first (a hand awashing his face), Desslock second (mouth practically eating the pipe), and Jickam third (with the help of the two others). The effect was almost immediate: the three returned to a rather healthy status, happy to be that way. Then they settled, laying amongst the guts of their steaming bunker.

Jickam was the first to talk, once again on his back, "We've got to be the biggest dumbasses, you know that?" Anson wasn't sure who he was talking to, but responded anyhow, "I know, Jickam... but that really scared me. We came that close to just losing it, even though a water supply was right there." "I just can't believe we forgot about it," Desslock said, patting himself for any cartons he may have passed over. Nothing. Anson leaned up, stern as a board, " i That's /i what scares me, Desslock. If it hadn't been for Jickam, we could all be dried leaves right now." Jickam liked that, "dried leaves", that, he thought smiling, that was cute, real cute. "Whatchya smiling about, Jickam?" Anson asked, catching his smile: his illuminating white-teeth was the give-away. "Nothing, nothing." There was a momentary silence before Jickam finished: "Just what you said, that's all... dried leaves. I like that." Anson smirked, his shoulders shrugging back and his chin melting into his neck. Typical chuckle. "Yeah-yeah, Anson, that was i realll /i good." Desslock was grinning now. "Okay, okay, that's enough, fellas," Anson stood up, knees popping. He crossed the bunker, exiting the sound of a creaking door.

The heat dropped from silly-inferno to a tame face-in-oven.

Anson swept his forehead and tugged at his shirt, tearing it from its stuck position beneath his armpits. That's when Anson heard the faint, child-like-yet-animalistic, tickle of the creature. Anson's hand paused above his head, sweat pouring from a sweep. His head turned. The thing was tiny, the size of a small dog. A foot-or-so high, and the same in length. The thing was bipedal, but its back was one of curvaceous detail, curling to its head which leaned out pre-historically. The skin color was dark, dark brown - colorful in vision, muddy in nature. Purplish-red stripes rode horizontally across its back, a number of them, starting from its half-foot tail, longing all the way to encircle the tip of its mouth. Two beady-eyes sat in dugout-sockets, the moldy brows nearly blinding its sight. The nostrils were unmoving, no evidence of breathing except for a 'hifff-hifff' going in coordination with a plumping body. Feeble arms protruded rigidly, bent at the joints and stiff in stance.

Anson swung the rest of his body to realign with his head. The thing's own head turned comedically, twisting at the neck; its tickling idiom fitting Anson with a smile. "Hey..." The man crouched sticking a hand out, two fingers stretching to test unexplored grounds. The thing hopped forward, skipping the human-step and instead leaping with bird-like grace. It leaned forward, stretching its neck out, eyes on Anson's entirety at once. The thing's nostrils whistled with wonder, grabbing scents from the smiling human. Anson's arm was growing tired so he propped his knee underneath it. The act scared the creature away, however, its body hopping backwards and then turning about before jaunting away, its shadows escaping behind the bunker's metallic-figure.

Knees popping once more, Anson rose. Oddly he patted his pants as if had fallen on them, a subconcious act he didn't realize was useless till it was done away with. "Huh," the words popping from his mouth. Anson, taking a final look at the static corner the desert-animal had disappeared to, went back inside the bunker.

Desslock and Jickam were lingering about the radio, reaching for signals by the twists of dials and the push of greasy buttons. Jickam turned his head around, took a glance at Anson, then turned back to the radio. "Hey," he said, a muffled voice venturing past an enviroment of mechanical-touch and fabricated clothing and lining. Anson glanced past them out one of the fire-holes. Seeing nothing of interest he shrugged and made his way to the two men min, tinkering with the radio. "Out of the way," Anson said, pushing aside Desslock with a hand. His legs cracked again once bending. Jickam leaned back in distaste, "D i amn /i , man! Might wanna have that looked at!" Anson laughed, "They're just bad knees, Jickam." The radio blared with life. Anson felt his ears pulse in defiance, but the noise was unrelenting. Jickam had plugged his 'drums with fingers, looking as if he was awaiting an explosion, "Change the fucking channel, damn!"

Anson dismissed Jickam's continuing comments and connected with Hawking's bearings. Click: "Hawking, Hawking, do you read?" Click. The white noise seemingly paused momentarily, a striking silence after Anson had spoken, before exploding into manical chatter. Anson grew impatient and tired of the noise. Click: "Hawking, Hawking, i do /i i you /i i read /i i me /i ?" Click. Anson licked his lip as the static took over, rising in volume by the second.

"Hey," Jickam said, but Anson interrupted, "Wait... just wait." He hung an arm out as if to slap tape over Jickam's mouth. "Do you hear that?" The arm lowered, Jickam leaned in. Desslock pitched his head forward over Anson's shoulder. There was a strange clicking breaking through the static. Then, the radio went dead. Anson twitched, brought the radio-mic to his mouth, paused, lowered it, then rose it again, "Hawking...? Hawking?" Anson couldn't help but submit to a shaky-apprehension - his tongue twisted and wrought about his teeth.

Then there was the clicking noise again, as if someone was picking the mic off the bunker-floor. "Hawking?" Anson asked again. "Hawking is that you?" They receieved a faint and distant chuckle, as the distant-mic began to sound like it was being dragged across the ground. Hit a rock. Bounced off a rupture in the sand. "Desslock," Anson spoke nervously, the man practically leaning on his shoulder, "Desslock I can hear your heart beating." The man apologized in hollow words, then backed off, teetering only an inch from Anson's back. "Haw... Hawking... are... is that you?" Anson's voice sounded dry and painfully drained of courage. The distant and rough dragging stopped abrubtly. Anson suddenly realized he wasn't breathing - he tried to start again, but he couldn't. Then the voice came on, groggy and deep, "Ahhhh- i Hawking's dead /i ."

The radio exploded into a screech. Jickam, in a panic of the purest form, kicked the box - breaking it apart. Sparks frizzled the air and smoke wavered above, lingering at the ceiling. Through a clear-patch of the haze Anson spied Jickam's emotional output: the man looked nearly consumed in madness. A solitary radio-bolt hustled back and forth between Anson's legs. Unbreathing, he picked it up. Desslock peered over Anson's shoulder and waved a hand in his face, "Anson, Anson you alright?" The bolt dropped from his hand. "Oh shit, he's not breathing! Anson!"

The man fell back with a face washed in purple. He hiccuped, gasping for air. "Anson - fuck! Anson!" Desslock slapped Jickam across the face; a large smacking crashing out from the strong-backhand. The man cried out, bursting from some sort of distant world, a world of distortions and slurred idioms; a world of horror. Out of that, place, Jickam began to move - without thought, without control. His legs took him outside to the water pump, Desslock was right behind him dragging Anson by his shoulders. Jickam's possessed hands began cranking; water began to puke, gurgling and surfing up the pipes. "Help here!" Desslock shouted as he struggled to get Anson out the door which would not stay open long enough for Desslock to come through. Jickam was quick to offer a hand, though, kicking the bumbling door completely ajar and atilt, busting it off a weak hinge. Anson was put beneath the water-pipe where Jickam quickly went back to recovering the water. Soon enough, it came, and Anson was drowned in it.

When Jickam met Desslock's eye, there was something strange about it. The look. Not one of requesting help. Not one of scenic surprise. One of horror.

Jickam, hand sliding from the water-crank, turned about. There was a creature, one that was not new to him in the least. A zergling. The thing was curiously inspecting the corner-edge of the bunker, digging at it. The last of the water pumped-up quickly faded out, exiting with only a few drops. Anson was recovering, however, and shouted wildly in a orgy of coughs and gags. The zergling jumped, startled, spinning to face Jickam. "Go go i go/i " Desslock screamed, beginning to drag Anson back into the bunker - Anson himself was screaming now, the creature before him overpowering the urge to gargle the water he choked on. Jickam took a fumbling step back, one hand back on the water-pipe. The zergling was hasty to pounce, rising its claws as a sort of backdrop to the screeching battle-cry it cried before leaping. Jickam, was confused as what to do, where to go, how to - he fell, his legs criss-crossing and his back throwing itself to the ground. All in luck: the spiny and clawed-thing found itself soaring through empty air, cutting and splicing only the dry simmers of heat. Jickam rolled over as the zergling pounded itself into the dust, snapping one of its flailing appendages. "C'mon, quick!" Desslock was at the door, hand out. What a beautiful thing, Jickam thought as he jumped to his feet. But his body was too far forward, and instead of running inside the bunker he stumbled into it. The clank was loud and could've been nearly cheerful if the situation had been playing out to a different tune. Knocked senseless by its own fault, the body fell unconcious.

While Jickam's body twitched and wrestled-about, Desslock took a take on the zergling: it was out of action for the moment. The thing's frong leg was bent awry and leaked dark-purple. Desslock grabbed the moment by its horns and ran inside the bunker, snatching a guass-rifle. He returned to find the thing gone, only a dotted-trail of dark splotches remained. Desslock tracked the blood-line around the bunker and saw the Zergling limping off towards the direction Hawking's had left-to. The Zergling got a good twenty yards away from Desslock when it seemed to sense its-being-watched. It stopped, and slowly turned around. Desslock could see its body heaving up and down in its last gasps. He raised the rifle. The thing sucked in as much air as possible, raised its claws up (one viciously bent aside), and let out a shriek so immense, so very loud, that the very mountains answered back. Desslock, vision wavering and hearing muted, pulled the trigger. A flash wickered from the barrel three times in one moment, blinking as it lashed out a trio of bullets. They all landed: the crooked leg was finally amputated; the Zergling's body absorbed one of the bullets - a puff of red and a crew of jagged carapace-plating exploding outwards; and, finally, the Zergling took the last of the lead to the crown of its skull - it entered with a dry i sput /i , created a rippling effect as it strode through the brain and muscle, then exited in a array of tissue and rotten vomit.

Desslock lowered his rifle, letting it slip down his arm and planting the butt of it near a foot, hand on the barrel. The warmth that his hand received was well-welcomed. Desslock smiled, taking a good look at his kill. "That, my friend, is what I call a-" Desslock's 'spit-on-grave' comment was cut short, an avalanche of shrieks and whistles erupting at the horizon where Hawking had made off to. "What the fuck...?" Desslock asked the quaking distance, eyes narrowing as if to spy the very alien shouts themselves. Then there, amongst the belly of the curdling-wave of minute and small-in-comparison cries and fits, was one huge, mammoth, battle-roar. Desslock felt his very organs momentarily go into displacement. The ground shook. His ears pinned back like a city-mongrel's. He felt his knees tighten and pop and his hand shiver, dropping the rifle to his feet.

"Holy shit."

Desslock sprinted back to the bunker, an unseen horror at his back.

Part Two...

The door, leaning broken and a-tilt against its framing, was kicked open, the finality of the door's life as it busted off its last hinge. Desslock stood, eyes wide and face brim in red. Anson, speaking with a scratchy voice, his throat still incredibly dry, "What's that noise?" As Desslock found out the horizon's squirming critters' cries and moans could be heard inside the bunker as well. "I don't know what it is, Anson, but it's something bad. Very bad." Desslock crossed the room. Anson, previously laid out on the floor, slithered up to rest on his laurels, almost stood, but paused, "Where's Jickam?" Desslock pounded the med-cabinet with the bottom of his fist, the door popped ajar. He spoke without looking back, "He's still outside. He's fine, don't worry." "Oh," Anson said, looking through the bunker's doorway: a dark and jagged figure, Jickam's silouhette, lay just outside. Desslock grabbed a backpack and saddled it on a nearby bunk, stashing an array of med-packs, ammunition-magazines, and water-jugs into it. He paused, a hand inside the pack releasing a .50 cal drum, "Anson, help me will ya?"

Anson stood, took a step, then was halted by a new Desslock-order, "Wait," Desslock bent his knees and leaned his head forward. His eyes made sure nothing of danger was outside, then, just in case, told Anson to, "Drag Jickam in here first. There might be more of those things out there." Anson nodded, "Yeah-yeah, just in case." Desslock mumbled in agreement as he went back to the cabinet. Anson was huffing and puffing as he dragged Jickam's limp body into the bunker. The door clacked, tipping a corner to the floor as Anson landed on it with a boot. He stopped there, leaving Jickam's body enough into the bunker where only his feet hung out of it. "Here," Desslock said; Anson looked up just in time to see, and catch, a twirling back-pack. Anson's body heaved with the momentum, "Jesus! This thing weighs a ton!" He slipped it on over his shoulders. "What exactly do you have in mind, Desslock? I see that we're going somewhere..." Desslock had found Jickam's pistol, hidden in a pile of sheets and a bed-spread. He cocked it back, checking for a filled chamber (a solitary round smiled its primer), then released it back into position. "We're going to the mountains." The safety of the pistol was flicked, locking the hammer, and then the barrel of the army-issued side-arm was tucked into the back of Desslock's pants (never the front, never).

The response to the answer was as Desslock expected: "The mountains? Are you fucking crazy?" Anson's voice was melted and adjoined with a rasp, and, at the last of his outburst, a crack of the voice itself. Desslock smiled, "Yeah, Anson, the mountains." A grenade disappeared into a second backpack. "Desslock, the i Zerg /i are in the mountains!" "Yeah, Anson, but apparently the Zerg flanked us or something - those noises are coming from head-quarters." Anson, nodded, then slowly shook his head, "But Desslock... I don't think the Zerg killed Hawking." Desslock, a hand burried in ammunitions and desert-supplies, dropped his head. "I know. I don't think it i was /i the Zerg, Anson... I don't know what the fuck killed Hawking. Hell, maybe Hawking isn't dead at all, maybe it's some huge joke being dropped on us-" "I doubt that." "-All I know is, there's nowhere to really go, but the mountains." "Whether the Zerg are there or not." Desslock almost responded, but the words never developed. He simply pulled his hand out of the cabinet, two pistol-mags clumped into his gripping-fingers. The pair of clips went into the pack. Desslock reached back into the cabinet and stopped, resting his arm on a shelf. He sighed, the words were born, "Yeah, whether they're there or not." Anson nodded once, twice, then over and over, and not only nodding, but bobbing his head everywhich was as if it was stuck on a spring, "Okay, Desslock, okay. We'll go the mountains, Zerg or not."

-

Surprisingly, leaving the bunker had been a rather difficult obstacle to overcome. The simple task of filling the water-jugs with the imminent dispatch was a shaky and sad procedure. Jickam, now murmuring and in the recovering stage, was dragged on a bed with a pair of ropes - Jickam's body-drag (and most of the weapons, ammo, and supplies) being distributed with both Desslock's and Anson's tiring bodies - the flocking creatures be-past them seemingly mocking their very sweat and pain. Desslock himself had packed enough armanents to level a small town: a dozen or so frag' grenades fitted with heavy clots of metal designed specifically for when the Zerg clogged up passageways. The alien race's age-old strategy had a simple counter in the palm of a human's hand. In the department of hand-held fire-arms Desslock had it covered with variety: a number of hand-guns (when it came to using those, the general mass of marines agreed, it was over, simple as that); a pump-shotgun with crowd-control pellets and enough blackpowder stuffed into the shells to make you hesitate pulling its two-pound trigger; three ordinary guass-rifles, semi-automatic and burst-fire that launched shells practically useless against most of the Zerg race; one heavy-duty .50 cal machine gun that Desslock himself carried, the barrel tipping up and down on the balance of his shoulder; a flame-thrower canister (both Anson and Desslock's search came empty for the actual 'thrower), Anson figured it'd have its uses - so Anson was the one that carried it.

Most of this diverse firepower was placed into a cut-out pocket of the mattress they dragged Jickam on. A hook was imbedded into the craw of the bed, just below Jickam's bouncing feet. From here a cable strode outwards ending a few feet away from the mattress with the flamethrower-canister attatched in a bundle of atrociously knotted roping - Desslock had noticed an exhausted Anson and personally came up with the great patch-work of a job, taking the weight of the canister off Anson's reddening back. Once Jickam got his bearings back, Desslock planned to set the fuel-tank as a sort of warning-bomb: whatever chased them would delegate their distance -personally.

As the bunker was eaten by the horizon Jickam's stirrings intensified.

"He's coming too," Anson noted. "I see that."

"Let's get him some water."

Desslock walked a little further, the weight a little more impeding on him as Anson had let off his own effort, a subconcious act activated as he awaited Desslock's response.

Desslock stopped, his back straining with Anson's weakened-pull. "Okay, let's stop for awhile. Five minutes, we can't be wiggling our dicks out here as those, things, get closer." "Alright, five minutes." Desslock fell onto his butt, his whole body teetering backwards on it alone before setting itself on burning legs. Anson walked about the troop's little convoy and brought out a jug of water. Desslock unstrapped a canteen from his belt and dispatched its lid and did not pause for a second to take a swig. And another. And another.

Jickam awoke.

"Hey there, Jickam," Anson spoke, tilting a canteen towards him.

"Where the hell are we - ahh, f-uhk..." Jickam tried to lean forward, but immediately fell back, pain drilling into his skull. A hand went to his brow as he laid back on his rested-spine. "Here," Anson brought the tilted canteen to Jickam's face. The man took it and drank a filling - not finishing the swig without a cough and spit-up before hand. "Whoa, there, Jickam, slow down," Anson took the canteen away. Jickam's hacking slowed as he regained composure. Desslock had a hand out, "Let's try to get you up." Jickam paused, then took the hand, Desslock pulling him upwards. Anson helped out as well, a hand on Jickam's shoulder. "You okay?" Anson asked, his head tilted underneath Jickam's (his own head struggled to straighten). Jickam tilted his neck back up, his nose sniffing the dried planes.

Jickam's eyes twitched in curiosity and his nose shrivelled into a wrinkly-terrain. "What the hell is that smell?" His head cocked downwards, a pair of eyes looking towards the horizon in wonder, "And that noise?"

Anson and Desslock eyed each other. Anson spoke, "We don't know."

"Is it the Zerg? Did the Zerg flank us?" There was a shake in his voice.

"We're not sure," Anson continued. "If they did, they'll be bending us over and taking turns pretty fucking soon."

Jickam got a laugh out of that. "Watch yourself, Jickam. Don't want you going into another coma, or having a goddam stroke for Christsakes." Anson and Desslock stood together now, sorta leaning on each other. "I honestly don't fucking see shit, Dess'," Anson said, a hand over his eyes, the horizon smooshed between the ground and his sweaty palm. Jickam joined them, at Desslock's side, he clapped his pants and rid of what dust his hand had collected (while Desslock and Anson pulled the armory-sled, Jickam's hand had been bumbling all over the hot dust and grind). "Well, I i hear /i them, that's for sure," Jickam said, getting the last of it. Anson dropped his hand and turned to Jickam, looking past Desslock's neck, "Jickam, you dumbass." "What?"

"C'mon guys," Desslock said, turning away and going towards the sled, "Another hour or so and we're at the mountains, maybe quicker since Jickam will be pulling too."

"Wait, wait," Jickam put an arm out, gripping Anson's wrist, "I think... I think I'm gonna pass out." He leaned backwards, eyes closed and a hand swept atop his brow. Anson threw the man's grip off and walked away, "Jickam, you fuck." Jickam's eyes opened, touched by the dimples of his wide grin, "What?" Desslock shook his head and grabbed the flamethrower-canister, untied it and used the rope to make another loop for Jickam to pull from. "What about that?" Jickam asked, pointing at the canister. Desslock, finished with the Jickam-loop, dropped the roping and came to the canister's side, crouching nearby. "Well," Desslock spoke, turning the lumberous object over, "I'm gonna give you a pistol, Jickam, and when you see anything you blow it up to warn us while we go and have tea and crumpits in the mountains? Cool? Cool."

"Man... I dunno," Jickam was rubbing the back of his neck sarcastically, "Don't-sound-like-good-idear-to-me."

"Heh, don't worry sonny - if the explosion doesn't tear you in half, they will," Desslock nodded toward the festive distance.

Anson heaved a rope over his shoulder, antsy to get moving. "Anson, hey, move on out and we'll catch up with you, aight?" Jickam grinned wildly once more. "I should honestly kick your mother-fucking-ass, Jickam." "Honestly?" "Yes, you fuck." "Okay, just making sure. I once didn't make sure with my girlfriend and it was a dude. Yeah, that's right, a fucking dude." Anson bent over in a hysterical fit, "Are you kidding?" "Dude, I'm not fucking kidding." Desslock, although hunkered over the canister, had an ear involuntarily bend backwards to drop in on this particular egg. Jickam continued, "It was un-fucking-believable. What happened is that we walk into this room in the back of the place, right? Well, we get going, you know off this off that... shoot the shit for awhile as... he's undressing as I go into a nearby room to get some rubber." "And you come back and it's a dude." "Bingo. He's standing there, naked, peter wiggling about." "Wow." "Damn straight wow! I puked all over the goddam room, myself, Jesus, I think my liver came out!" "Jickam, I think I can finally understand your satire. Now that I know you're past... well, I understand, man, I understand." Anson jokingly slapped Jickam's shoulder. Jickam faked a pout, "Thanks man, thanks... it means a lot, honestly."

With a hint of a chuckle Desslock spoke, "Alright, the booby-trap is set and ready to roll." Jickam and Anson looked down at it as Desslock stood and took a step back in admiration. The canister had a block taped to its side, and from there wired to a black stick, the activation-receiver and primer. The black box had a round and blue hub attatched to its front, grids running square lanes across its face. "What the fuck did you do to it, Dess'?" Jickam poked a shoe out, toe-tapping the side of a simmering barrel. "Watch it," Desslock cautioned, seriously, "I primed it for motion sensory." Jickam retreated his exploring foot immediatley, "Jesus-Christ!" "Oh, don't worry, it'll only be primed when I tell it to be." Desslock held up a remote. "Ah. Well, let's get the hell away from it, already," Jickam went to the armory-sled, carefully picking up a rope with a faint use of his scarred hands. Behind him Desslock continued his spec'ing, "Whenever the sensory-grounding has seventy-percent of its pie eaten up..." Anson's eyes slimmed, "Boom." Desslock nodded, "Boom."

"Yeah, boom, hurrah. Let's get the fuck going already!" Jickam started pulling the sled away. Anson was the first to go towards it and help out. Desslock lingered about his creation a little longer. In admiration. In an observation dunked in the waters of sadism.

He looked to the horizon, a bleak and fuzzy line of bronze.

"A brazen brown, eh Mom," Desslock muttered before turning away.

-

The first encounter was embattled with a queer and oft-changing tone. First, wonder. Then, awe. From there things turned to terror, fright, a brief joust, and finally rest; the thing dead.

Jickam screamed, sprawling forward, arm holding arm. Blood ran down a sleeve and plummeted from his finger-tips. Jickam's feet stumbled about, criss-crossing and catching toe-to-toe, but he remained grounded. Jickam screamed his terrible cry again. "Shut-up! Shut-up Jickam!" Desslock ran over to him, nearly tackling the man to the ground. Anson lowered a smoking gun to his side before dropping it to the bloody ground, eying the remains of what he had killed.

"Jesus Christ! Jesus i Christ /i !" Jickam fell to his knees, all balance taken away with Desslock on his back.

"Anson," Desslock turned his head around, Jickam sobbing beneath his knees. " i Anson /i ," Desslock called again.

"Yeah."

"You alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"You're good?"

"I'm good man, I'm good."

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Yeah, it is, man, it is."

"No, Anson, tell me straight up: is that who I think it is."

Anson paused, sighed, then turned his head to Desslock, "It's him, Dess'."

Desslock, in disbelief, turned his body and fell onto his butt, the world jolting with the impact. The horizon seemed not to care, keeping on with its increasingly montonous speak. Jickam sobbed, his head in the dirt. Desslock sighed a weak breath. Anson sat down near the dead body in the sand, speaking with his back to Desslock, "Dess', I think me and Jickam have to know: are we going to make it to the mountains?" Desslock didn't know, but that didn't mean they had to know that: "We'll make it, Anson. Look, the explosion hasn't even gone off yet, so they've at least got to be a couple miles behind us, if not far more." Jickam reared his head out the dirt, a face rehashed in recollection. His hand squeezed his bleeding shoulder, freeing another bubble of the crimson from the deep cut. Jickam's face went sour, but he talked steadily nonetheless, "But, Dess', it... he, didn't come from behind us. He came from the mountains." Desslock nodded, "Yes, and I don't know how, Jickam, I don't. Maybe he went the wrong way, I dunno..." Anson shook his head, "No, you know that's not right, Desslock. We all saw him leave to headquarters. We all saw him go over the horizon. Desslock, i there's something else going on here. /i "

He wanted to shake his head, Desslock, but he just couldn't. There was something akward going on here. Some mystery-tree was slowly being chopped down, its branches seeking and creating their own enigmas, paradoxes and maybe, perhaps, time-shifts to escape its falling. It was hard to believe, but Desslock couldn't see otherwise in his running-calculations. Hawking left headed towards headquarters. Headquarters has apparently been overrun, destroyed... or, worse, manipulated. Hawking died somewhere along this line. Something killed him - or someone. Whatever it was, it spoke. No matter how devilish and unworldly that thing had sounded, how demonic it was that its very voice fell apart in Desslock's, Jickam's, and Anson's heads soonafter due to mild reasons... the thing i spoke /i .

English, old-English, Desslock couldn't remember the lingual background, but the definite matter was the simple fact that whatever the hell killed Hawking, whatever spoke through his mic, fucking i spoke /i . "Zerg don't speak," Desslock pushed out his pressed lips. "Zerg don't speak," Desslock said again, louder. "What?" Jickam and Anson asked in unison. Desslock's eyes widened, not in fright, but as if in wonder at the lightbulb pulsing above his head. "Zerg don't speak!" He said again. "Yeah, so?" Jickam asked, the edges of his mouth seemingly chained to his ears as pain soared through the murmuring shoulder. "I know, I know," Anson spoke now, standing to his feet and walking away from Hawking's dead body. His head nodded up and down, also as if a lightbulb had emerged from the thinnest of airs just a reach above his head. "Desslock's saying that whatever killed Hawking, and somehow got Hawking here... couldn't be the Zerg, Zerg don't speak!" His voice lowered, "I mean, they don't speak English, for that matter." Jickam turned his body about, struggling to get a knee up then pushing to stand. Eventually, he got there, Anson and Desslock all the while waiting for his straightened stance to finish as they both saw he had something to say. Jickam spoke, hand on shoulder, "So, whatever's behind us... may not even be the Zerg? Christ, Desslock. Christ, Anson. What are you guys smoking? Huh? What else could it be? i Maybe /i the goddam Zerg learned to speak English!" His arm unlatched itself from the wounded shoulder and now, free, began to twirl about, " i Maybe /i you goddam mad-hats have got it all wrong! i Maybe /i ," Now both his arms began to soar enthusiastically, the passionate waves of pain blitzing outwards from his shoulder now ignored for the new tempest emerging from Jickam's very mouth, "We're all just a bunch of mad-fucks who don't know what the hell is going on! It's the heat! It's the pain! It all adds up to me. Let me see," Now a hand went out, open-palmed. "You got the fucking weather, hot as a goddam oven," his other hand slapped the palm, a finger on display, "Multiply that by the damn bunker," another slap and another finger was held out, as if to mock the military hand-signals of age-old. Also along with this act was the constant shaking of Jickam's head after every example, "Then Desslock here has us marching across the goddam desert to the fucking mountains." Desslock and Anson looked at each other, just on an unexplainable recovery basis, before checking back to Jickam's rant, "And then, and here's the big one: how - the fuck - do you explain why all the other bunkers have simply disappeared? I don't think I've ever heard of a company-line of bunkers vanishing into the fucking air, have you, Desslock? Anson?" Jickam's head rocked back, his arms open, the finale: " i Poof/i Just like that, huh? God i dam /i Jesus-Christ-almighty!"

Bloody amazing, Desslock thought. But the loony-tune had a point and Desslock nodded sporadically to it. Anson shook his head, catching eye of this movement, "You can't be serious?" Anson turned to Jickam, "It's not the Zerg, Jickam! It's simply not!" But Desslock kept nodding his head. "Desslock? C'mon! There's no way it's the Zerg!" Desslock spoke now, "I know." Anson, slightly reeling back, smiled. Jickam, as if in a dazzling potrayal of body-to-music, counter-pointed Anson's smile with his very own frown. Desslock continued, "Jickam. It's not the Zerg. But it's not whatever we may comprehend it to be either. That's why I've decided to face it."

The very thought was absurd. Anson's heart skipped a beat and Jickam's jaw dropped a notch, lowering his big mouth to a yawning never achieved before. Desslock smiled, "You think I'm insane." "No, no, Desslock, we don't think you're insane..." Jickam simply stared at him while talking, a lax of body movements due to the still residing waves of shock. "We just think, you know, the heat has turned you're noodles into spam. That's all I'm saying, Desslock, that's all I'm saying." Anson was a little more upfront, "You're joking, right?" At least, as upfront as he could be.

"You guys don't have to go, but I'm going. I don't think I can bear to hear those sounds any longer and ," Anson broke in, "That's right, Desslock, i sounds/i That means whatever the hell you think or don't think it is doesn't matter as whatever it is, it's i there /i ." "And apparently pissed off," Jickam finished. "Look," Desslock spoke on, trudging through erected walls of friendship, teetering towers that skied and topped in the very clouds themselves. "I just don't think I can live without knowing. If the Zerg kill us in the mountains, or we die in the mountains due to starvation, or god-knows, cannibalism, I think it'd be worth it, in the end, just to i see /i . Just to know for godssake. I mean it could be nothing, or, like you said, it could be the Zerg or something else - but you know what, curiosity is gutting me right now, and I can't stand to let the never-ending wonder go on."

Anson sighed, and Jickam stood speechless.

"Okay, Desslock, okay." Anson, stuck his hand out. Desslock grasped it and let the locked arms hang, unshaking, "If things go well for you, and you die many years from now, let us know, alright?" Desslock smiled, now shaking the hand as his eyes blacksmithed an unstopping tear. Jickam hugged Desslock from a side, not a tear on his own face but a raised octive in his voice, "Later, man, later. And like Anson said: if you make it, tell us, alright? You better fucking tell us!" Jickam laughed, Desslock grinning along, "No need to worry, Jickam." "Alright, alright..." the comedic-figure sniffed, "Shit this is tough."

After a time had passed, the group broke apart.

-

Desslock's loneliness nearly drove him to a sprint for the mountains. To pick up the slack of pulling the 'sled. To go back into comedic-hijinks with Jickam. The moral dilemmas filled with rich discussion with Anson. But, with a stern and stone-hearted effort, Desslock pushed on.

The trap Desslock created had yet to explode, signalling the horizon's nearing. So Desslock was blind to exactly how far or close the horizon-monsters were: he couldn't quite figure out how many miles they had walked from the sensory-mine, and now, mind beffudled, Desslock walked in anticipation alone. Forget the trap for death was imminent anyhow - turning back was no longer an option as another hour of walk passed. Instead, Desslock began to think of what exactly he was about to meet. Was it the Zerg? A different alien-race? A side-show bust of another human species? Lord knows, Desslock thought, Jickam may just be right: it could be nothing but a figment of one's imagination. Desslock's math on Jickam's theory always told him that that wasn't possible. How could three people hear the same things? Not possible indeed. Yet the thought, stashed to the farthest of still reachable mind-cabinets, remained. Jickam could be right. Not possible, but he could be.

And that alone, that infection, that hostile bacteria of filed thought, began to corrupt Desslock's very mind. The thought of it being nothing at all scared the mightiest of courageous-thought straight out of his brave childishness. If it wasn't real, what was? Nothing?

"Sweet Jesus," Desslock muttered.

The bunkers, explain them, Desslock. i Explain /i them. Explain how Hawking disappears into the horizon, then re-emerges a possessed creature many miles the opposite direction.

"Desslock," a voice spoke, not of the man's own, "tell me why you murdered Jickam and Anson."

"What? I did not murder anyone... I, I... oh God, what is going on?" Desslock fell to his knees. A world of brown surrounded him, a beige sea swallowing him up. There were no waves, the dark bodily-waters were at a dead-calm. No wind blew, no sound breathed except for the extraction of breath itself. "Desslock," a figure, once sillouhetted by a backdrop of its brethren, emerged from the planes of creatures and beasts-alike. Desslock rose his eyes, fixating them on the being who had walked out of the unlimited depths of the most boring of colors.

"Desslock," it repeated. The man's eyes slimmed, getting himself a better glimpse of the thing as his focus intensified on it. The body was to the same color of the rest of the world that it, Desslock fathomed, commanded. Bony in appearance, it was. Rigid bumps and lulls in consistency interrupted the thing's sense of fine appearance. The legs were humanistic in hypothetical-instinct, but undoubtedly alien in nature. Arms were a squirming orgy of tentacles and its head was a hulk of bone-structure outlined by stretched skin, or melted carapace. And as Desslock looked about him once more, viewing the creatures surrounding him with intensified investigation, he found he was enveloped in the very Zerg armies he doubted the horizon could be. But this... thing, standing afront him was no denzien of the Zerg that Desslock had seen, or at least heard of, before. It was something from another corner of the universe. A denominator in the galactic equation... But its appearance caused Desslock's head to stir not in horror, but in nostalgia, in reminiscence...

"Desslock," Its voice sounded recognizable in some unexplainable way, the tone? The throat-squeezes and loosenings? The tongue, whipping almost lavishly about in a certain feminist manner, caressing mandibles and molars alien and human alike? It all sounded i familiar /i "Desslock, I think an explanation is in dire need here. So, let me explain." The thing's mouth moved in different directions and ways, not just because of the different words, but because it had taken different shapes and anomalies - and along with these transitions were an accompanyance of changing voice and tone, with the start of each word beginning with a digital pronounciation before it fell into the voice of that it wished to recreate - that it perhaps assimilated at one time eons ago.

Before the creature whose heighth seemed to vary slightly with every passing moment began to unveil what Desslock yearned for, Desslock noticed for himself that this creature didn't just head a population of Zerg alone, but other denziens (and dieties) of the galaxy as well. Desslock saw fish-like creatures with many tendrils protruding from their sides and bellies see-sawing about the Zerglings, perhaps cleaning their carapaces. Some Zerglings stood beneath the legs of Ultralisks, gigantic behemoths that represented the most fearless and fear-fullfilling class of the Zerg race. Desslock slowly turned his head about him, eying what other creatures he could find - and, most of all, looking for whatever had struck a cold fear into his heart back at the bunker. Whatever creature it was, it had to have been...

Huge.

Tree-trunk legs (literally) sprouted from the ground and the unluckily crushed foul alike, reaching up to the underside of the mammoth, its belly a good three stories from the ground itself. The Zerg was a physical race in instinct and nature, but this thing surpassed all that Desslock had known. If it wished it could very easily crush the entire army breathing and shuffling beneath it. A simple walk across the Confederate-empire would leave that pitiful assembly in ruin. The face of the creature was unseeable, too far high and, perhaps, too far out of reach of one's comprehension.

Desslock turned away from the monster, fear of insanity overlapping the fear of death itself.

"What do you want?" Desslock asked the tentacle-thing before him. It tried a smile on, one of another world, but it failed to soothe the trembling human. So it talked its speak of many worlds, "I am a great..." it searched for a word, or, perhaps, a proper pronounciation, "Magician." The word unfolded with the very sound of a sqwuaking street-hawk trying to draw in the market-masses. "I can create entire planets for one to see. I can create evolution for one's eye to research and broaden their views on, and I can create death itself." The thing disappeared momentarily and Desslock, for the most minute span of time, thought he saw himself in a world of black, surrounded by things darker than the color itself. The world came back with the creature's voice, taking the role of a psychologist Desslock once met. He had a cheery voice always channeling from him, but it was always serious and always on the ball, on the point, and on the gun, "Desslock, how do you know, now, that whom you are talking to is real?" That psychologist had been found with the barrel of a shotgun curiously poking through his head, and an akward toe clenching the trigger.

"How do you know, Desslock, that Anson and Jickam and Hawking were any more real than the bunkers, the life of army-residence. How do you know that this life you have been running on, this treadmill that you insist to keep afoot, is any more real than the dreams you've had? Desslock, I'm a greater magician than any magical-fiend you have ever seen before." Desslock spoke for himself, a breath of humid air gnawing his words into a scratchy beat, "You say that, but I don't see any proof."

"Proof? Ha! Proof! Desslock, look about you, don't you i see /i the proof?" The armies slowly whispered away. Zerg and others disappeared, an unexplainable void taking their place. When Desslock looked over his shoulder, the unproportional legs of the beast were no longer there. Everything was gone but the tentacle-thing and Desslock himself... and Anson, Jickam and Hawking, both forms of the seargant being represented. And the bunker.

"Desslock, I have lost control of you," the thing began, "You see, you are i my /i creation. You are no different than this," a dog ran past Desslock, its tail rowing across his face, before disappearing into the void, "Or this," a flight of aircraft screamed overhead before their quick exit. "Except those things had no thought. No desires, no complications, no emotions to confront and battle. No wars to fight, no people to lambaste. No lives to live. You, Desslock, are a bastard-child of my imagination, and they," a complicated array of tentacles formed a human arm, missing any sort of hand and fingers, before pointing to the group of friends Desslock had known, and the bunker, "They are the children of your mind."

"This may be hard to take, Desslock, but let me put it bluntly if you haven't gotten it yet: you are not real. You are what I have wished to create, and they are what you have wished to create. Your life, your friends, your job, your car, your pants, your shirt, all of it is delicately detailed figments of one's imaginations; yours. I have watched you, Desslock, watched you create parents for yourself, and watched you have your imaginary fosters' name you and raise you. From my early erection of your being I realized I had fathomed something too great for even myself to control: I had created a mirror image of myself. Too late, I was, to kill you then. So now, here you are, a being with more power than all the gods and dieties of the universe combined. And, now, I realize my creating of you may have been a great and wonderous thing!" The thing paused before continuing with the voice of age itself, "I am dying, Desslock. I'm losing grasp of what is and isn't. My will and mentality is crumbling under the forces of insanity, and so is my life for that is what it is fielded upon. Desslock, I am asking for you to replace me. It will be tough at first, the learning will be, for that matter: knowing that all you meet, all you learn, are actually your own creations will be an incredible might to endure, but if you reinforce your mind, fight off the urge of realization, you will become what I am now."

"And that is?"

"Everything."

Desslock shook his head to the very idea of this. But the creature wouldn't let such seeds of doubt be buried so early, " i No/i I will not let you destroy all that I have created! You must understand, Desslock, that the universe is in your very palm!" "If it is not real, creature, then why should I care?" "Because, without it you will live as nothing. The theories, the research, the vehicles, the roads, the vegetation, the animals, the planets, the galaxies and the stars, all of it, will be lost, and you, Desslock, will still be here left with nothing but the claws of insanity as you live in a dark recess of unexplainable depths and reaches."

"It is my choice?"

"It is your choice," the creature bowed, and when its body lifted there was little left to speak of it.

"Hurry, my creation, for this meeting is bringing down the walls of my sanity."

The planes of a desert began to form, giving the feet and legs of Desslock's friends something to plant on. The creature smiled, "Thank you." Then it was gone. Desslock knew not whether it was he who had destroyed and done-away with the 'magician', but he knew that the thought itself was a crack in his own walls of sanity: bits of the desert faultered in their appearance, and sometimes their sense of mass and gravity as they disappeared, changed colors, and floated into the air in erratic formations. Regaining a sense of reality and imagination itself, Desslock smiled as the desert repositioned itself to what reality Desslock wished it to be. Eventually, after the mountains were erected, and time itself drawn to his liking, Desslock placed himself where he wanted: inside the bunker, at night with the stars bright and vivid and in completely new patterns, and with Anson at the bunker's opened door, penis hanging out and a stream of urine hanging in the air. Desslock smiled, happy with his recreation. But something was off, something was pointing the direction of his ways onto a wrong path...

"Ah..." Desslock spoke. He grinned as he looked out one of the bunker's fire-holes, watching as other bunkers lined up, filling with soldiers of different lives, wives, and ties. Now, Desslock reasoned, nothing would be amiss. Nothing would go wrong except the wrong of Desslock himself.

Everything would be everything.


End file.
